


kiss me the way you did last night

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aussie snark, Because I Couldn't Resist, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Light Bondage, Summer Vacation, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day, another Mendo AU, blindfold, jewellery kink, lots of sentiment, rapturous romanticism, shameless romantic fantasy, smoking and swearing cos Mendo, this is as close to xReader as i get, with a side of Marxist discourse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 18:23:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13664676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: How to do Valentine’s Day.





	kiss me the way you did last night

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for a Valentine’s Day fic came from shelveddoll who prolly didn’t expect me to do it like this in response, haha sorry. 
> 
> You could read this as taking place in the same AU as the Christmas fic, this coming before that.
> 
> Title from the song by The Carpenters. And I would highly recommend a Carpenters love songs playlist as you read this cos yes.

_and my only wish would be that forever i will see // you moving through the darkness smiling back at me_

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“Are we doing something for Valentine’s Day?” he asks. 

“What? No! Eww! I loathe Valentine’s Day! Why? No!”

He smokes and watches her, his eyes laughing.

“What,” she grumbles.

“Tell me why you loathe Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh my god.” She knows what he’s doing. “Stop taking the piss, you horrible man. You know why, it’s not funny!”

“Does it have something to do with capitalism?” he asks with a merry sort of malevolence.

She glares at him. “You’re an awful person, I can’t believe I let you -- yes, of course it does!” she explodes, overcome with the indignity of it all. “It’s crass and commercial, completely meaningless and soulless, and serves no other function than to make people feel pathetic and inadequate for not being in a Relationship with a capital R, for not being part of the great capitalist societal grind to marry and reproduce and spend money!”

“Heteronormativity,” he murmurs, looking innocently at his iPad.

“And it is super fucken heteronormative although I bet now the goddamned capitalist economy will target us poor queer fuckers to rope in the -- what is it, pink? No, purple! The pink and purple dollar! Fuck! And make everyone feel like rubbish for either not being or not wanting to be in a Relationship, cos god knows capitalist societies function on making us feel inadequate so we constantly buy shit in the hope it’ll make us feel better. Goddamnit.”

“Sooo,” he says thoughtfully. “I guess that means you wouldn’t want to spend Valentine’s Day in the Maldives?”

“The what -- the,” she stammers, thrown. “The -- do they even do Valentine’s Day in the Maldives?”

He purses his thin mouth. “We could find out …”

She blinks some more, caught by the mental image of blue seas and white beaches and sarongs and skin. “I’ve never been to the Maldives …”

He nods, his eyes very wide and pretty. “Me neither …”

“It … er,” she fumbles a little. “It might be nice to get away from the cities and stuff, from all the --”

“Overwhelming capitalist heteronormative pressure,” he supplies helpfully, stubbing his cigarette out.

“Yeeesssss …” She stares at him for a few suspicious seconds. “You’ve already booked it, haven’t you?”

He giggles, tongue slipping out, then sobers fast, reaching for his iPad. “Of course not. I thought we could do that together.”

“You are such a manipulative liar, oh my god.” But she says it with all admiration. Because really she doesn’t mind that he is, she usually works out what he’s doing soon enough. And he does tend to use his power for good. Mostly. “So where are we staying?”

___________

 

They land at Malé International Airport on a glorious clear afternoon in the week before Valentine’s Day. The plane actually skims the crystal blue waters before it touches the tarmac, which thrills them both. A nice lady with a written sign says hello and promptly whisks them into a seaplane, luggage and all. Perfect blue skies and green blue waters so clear the white sand glimmers through. He’s already taking pix every five seconds, his mouth slightly open as he aims his phone at the window glass.

The resort island is almost the shape of a teardrop, lush green and totally flat, fringed with white beaches in the bright blue ocean. “Look,” he points excitedly, “look, those are the villas! How fucken cool is that?” When she peers by his shoulder out the window, she sees the overwater villas form a grey skeletal shape out into the ocean like a --

“Oh my god, is that a --”

“Manta ray structure,” he interrupts. “That is so **_awesome_**! That’s right, right?” he asks their hotel pilot. “It’s in the shape of a manta ray?”

The lady confirms this, which makes him even happier. By the time they actually land, check in and are wheeling their luggage onto the walkway over the white sand, she’s quite sure he’s taken about eighty pix already. That’s fine, it means she doesn’t have to make any effort to document this little trip. 

Their villa seems massive, thatched high angled roofs and white walls and golden wood, dark wicker couches with white upholstery and the most charming accents of turquoise blue. There’s an indoor corner jacuzzi, a pool out on the deck, and a four-poster bed of golden wood with gauzy white curtains tied back. It’s like a fantasy realm of pure luxury and laziness.

A nice man tells them he’s part of their twenty-four hour butler service, that they need not hesitate to call for anything at any time, but of course they will have total privacy. He shows them around the villa, paying particular attention to the espresso machine and the jacuzzi and the aircon.

As the door shuts behind the butler, she sits at the foot of the four-poster bed, rendered somewhat speechless by the view out onto the deck and beyond. It’s mid-afternoon, the sun is high, and the green blue ocean ripples all the dizzying way to the horizon. There’s not a sound but the sploshing of tiny waves against the struts of the villa, and the soft pad of footsteps as he ambles back to her. 

“Fuck,” he says, sitting beside her on the bed.

“I know, right?”

The view of endless flat water would be terrifying if not for the little dark smudge of another island to one side of the horizon. She says this aloud, leaning her cheek against the sunwarm shoulder of his tee. He makes a quiet sound of agreement, his hand on her knee, and they sit for a few minutes, soaking up the peace, adjusting to the newness of this place.

When he goes for a smoke out on the deck, she unpacks her night things and toiletries, feeling the bone deep exhaustion of jetlag. The wall behind the four-poster is that perfect turquoise shade that makes her heart so happy, and the linen is snowy white and smooth. She leaves her clothes in a heap by her open suitcase, and climbs onto the bed, tossing the little blue cushions onto the wicker rocking chair in the far corner. The sheets are cool and perfect against her naked skin, the ceiling fan circling the warmth in the room. She relaxes with a sigh into the comfort of a good bed.

“Babe.” She hears him slide the balcony door open. “Babe,” he murmurs, his voice rough and gentle. “You sleeping already?”

She mumbles against the pillow that smells faintly alien, of washing soap that isn’t hers. He doesn’t disturb her, goes into the bathroom. Through the incoming tides of sleep, she’s dimly aware of him moving around. The light changes when he closes the balcony door and draws the curtains across. The last thing she senses before sleep claims her is the warm nicotine smell of his body weighing down the mattress beside her. Familiar once more.

____________

 

The resort is huge, and the overwater villas are set at the furthest point. This means they take long meandering strolls to the restaurants and the activities and the spas over the week, holding hands and talking idly over the walkway, along the soft white sand, and into the shade of greenery on the island proper. Shades and sandals and a big floppy hat for her, aviator sunnies and sandals and a baseball cap for him. “Where’s an Akubra when you need one?” he jokes.

She laughs. “Do we want to perpetuate Aussie stereotypes overseas?”

He wrinkles his nose at her, the dappled sunlight through the greenery catching all the lovely creases of his face. “They’re bloody useful stereotypes, sometimes!”

“Strewth,” she murmurs, which makes him laugh and squeeze her hand. The sea breeze stirs his ragged white tee against his chest, brings the scent of flowers intense and tropical as it flutters the skirt of her light blue dress. There’s the sound of laughter and conversation close by, other tourists beyond the trees and on the beach, children playing and shrieking.

As he glances towards the laughter, he takes his cap off and flaps it for a bit, his silver brown hair all messy. She holds onto the brim of her floppy hat. “Wanna swap, baby?”

He gives her a speaking blue look, his mouth twitching, and then whips his cap off. “Yeah, all right, give us a go.”

When they walk into the lobby, he checks himself out in the mirrors. “I think I look quite fetching.”

“Stop trying to make fetch happen,” she replies automatically, and they get into a laughing non-argument about the evolution of language as they enter the big airy restaurant.

The resort offers a whole range of international cuisines which mildly startles both of them. He promptly asks about the regional dishes and orders that for their breakfast. “Mas huni,” he reads out from the menu. It turns out to be quite yummy, a mishmash of smoked tuna and onion and coconut and chilli, with flatbread called roshi. She’s surprised at how obvious the Indian influence is, until he says between bites, “Yeah, babe, that’s what happens when you’re in the middle of the Indian Ocean.”

“Ooh, you’re so funny.” 

But at least that means they’re both very excited about the food, at least within the controlled confines of the resort where the water can be trusted. “Mojitos and coconut juice,” she tells him as they leave the restaurant, swapping hats back. “That is what I intend to drink the whole time we’re here. None of that shitty synthetic coconut water rubbish like back home, just the good real stuff.”

He flicks his cap on, tugging the bill down. “Sounds fucken great to me.” Somehow the cap makes his chin look that much more defined and attractive. It’s a mystery to her.

The first day he signs them up to snorkelling. She understands without being told that of course she will have no say in any of their activities because there bloody well will be activities. Not that anything will actually be planned ahead, it will all be spontaneous on the day because he’s like that. If it was up to her, the whole week would be diarised, regimented between activity and total sloth. But since the trip was his idea, she mentally relinquishes all control to him and blithely goes along. Because it does make him very happy.

Snorkelling through the shallows of the house reefs is extraordinary and so very peaceful. All the little fishies and the big fishies, and he gets very excited when a turtle swims lazily past. She gets a bit mesmerised by the stingrays and the way they move, the rippling edges of their bodies that seem to defy logic and vertebrae, the vicious ends of their tails. He has to catch her ankle when she nearly follows one off the reef and away from the group. 

It’s so wonderful under the surface she thinks she could stay forever, maybe even follow the seabed further and further out to where it becomes deep trenches where all those weird and wonderful creatures live.

“And you remember Finding Nemo?” she chatters to him as they’re walking back to the villa, hair sopping wet and muscles pleasantly aching. “Remember that creepy lantern fish that they have to fight? That’s a, that’s a dwarf lanternfish -- no, wait, is it? No, I gotta google it. I think it may be called something else. Anyway, they live down there, deep deep down in places like the Mariana Trench and stuff. They’re **_so_** cool and **_so_** creepy, like stuff of nightmares creepy. I love them.”

He gets this goofy sort of smile when she goes on one of her rants, his eyes very soft blue as he watches her talk. “Really, it’s like space,” she tells him, pulling off her clothes on her way to the shower. “Like we spend all this money trying to explore space when right here on this planet is all this ocean we haven’t even mapped fully. We don’t even know -- did I show you that clip of the giant squid those Japanese scientists saw?”

“Nuh, show me when we get out,” he says and follows her into the shower. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, knocking elbows and losing the soap and giggling like idiots. She lets him wash her hair, loving the strength of his fingers on her scalp, and the little snorts he makes when the water gets in his nose. 

All the products are Molton Brown, and the scent of orange and bergamot sharpens the damp cool air, thrills her senses. She lathers up the loofah, secretly happily aware of his eyes on her, his wet fingers stroking up her sides. As the water rushes upon them, she washes the fair freckled skin of his chest, watching the rivulets split around the sharp small point of his nipples. When she licks them, his hand closes gently in her hair, all his body swaying towards her, flesh hard and rising between their thighs. Teeth and warm wet of her mouth, she pulls so the pink stretches, so he gasps and his fingers tighten. 

“Ah god,” he mutters and kisses her, pushing her so her back hits the rough granite wall. The loofah has fallen somewhere around their feet, she doesn’t care, twining her fingers through his soaked hair. Arching into his mouth as his hands close on her breasts, as they kiss and fondle each other in the water, slick hot flesh, hot breath and moans of pleasure.

But he pulls away after a while, breathless and smiling at her. “Dinner, come on, I’m hungry.”

She almost makes a lewd suggestion, and he grins knowingly. “Fine, be like that,” she replies, laughing back at him.

They hold hands as they walk to dinner. The night skies fill with a dizzying spiral of stars overhead, the land breeze cool and rushing through the trees strung with little gold lanterns. Dinner is warm and intimate, linking fingers of one hand as they talk only to each other about the day and about the food. Fragrant curries with rice, banana flower salad, cocktails made with something called raa which the waiter tells them is fermented palm sap. It’s not very alcoholic but lovely and refreshing.

“Anglerfish!” she exclaims when they’re in bed that night, so sudden he flinches beside her, nearly dropping his phone.

“Jesus, what, where? Who’s an angler?”

She shows him the Google pix, saying gleefully, “The one in Finding Nemo. I knew I got it wrong. Look how scary and huge it is, that’s a female, they’re way way waaay bigger than the males. And the deeper they live, the weirder and more distorted they look. Do you know, the pressure down the bottom of the trench is so intense it’d turn you and me, humans like us, into **_jam_** in like a matter of seconds? Can you imagine? And these buggers survive down there!”

He’s giving her that tender lopsided smile again. It’s probably the same way she looks at him when he starts rabbiting on about Napoleon or some other ancient political figure. 

“Am I a weird distorted anglerfish?” she asks, half serious.

“You’re a beautiful nerd,” he tells her fondly and nudges her shoulder slowly with his. She giggles, blushing.

____________

 

On this tropical holiday, he wears thin white shirts and white v neck tees with dark cargo trousers rolled up to the calf or knee when possible. She’s constantly distracted by the sight of his erect nipples poking through the flimsy tees. He tans so fast over the week, the colour so deep it makes his eyes crystal blue and bright, picking out the copious silver in his dark hair that’s gone all curls in the heat. She tugs at where the silver fluffs out behind his ripply ear, saying wistfully, “You should grow it out, I miss it long.”

“Mmm, maybe.” He kisses her with his cool fine mouth, tasting of alcohol and fruit juice. His fingers slip under the hem of her dress, she knows he likes these sundress things, all the fluttery material that skims her bare tanning limbs. 

She wears blue a lot, denim shorts and blue camisoles with thin double straps, blue boho dresses with drawstring waists and pretty embroidery around the scoop neckline and along the edges of the short skirt. Her hair pulled up in a knot atop her head, wisps around her face, she knows how pretty she looks with the way his eyes soften on her. 

They take the seaplane to visit one of the inhabited islands, strolling through the market of food and flowers. Away from the resort, she wears long light sleeves and jeans, and he rolls down the cuffs on his cargo trousers. Unable to kiss or caress, they hold hands as chastely as possible as they look at the stalls and chat with the vendors. 

But then his index finger strokes the inside of her wrist and she shivers violently, shooting a wide eyed slightly furious look at his serene profile. He knows how unbearably sensitive she is there. The moment they get back to the villa, he’s kissing her fierce, pulling his white shirt off his bare shoulders and down his arms. Her back is against the wall again, hands on his tapered face, kissing him with so much unleashed hunger, her nipples tight and wanting his touch.

On the lazy days as the heat ripples on the green blue waters, she naps on the bed with the balcony doors shut, the gauze curtains let down around the wooden posts, fluttering a little with the currents of the aircon. At the foot of the bed, he brushes the gauze aside and pulls the covers slowly so they slide down her revealed body in singlet and shorts. She looks through her lashes at him as he comes up the bed, his shoulders broad and freckled, bared by a white tanktop, the shapes of them so beautiful. 

As he watches her with a small predatory smile, his eyes lambent blue, he slides his big hand into the waistband of her shorts. It makes her arch with a small shocked gasp, fingers curling in the cool sheets. The silence swirls around them, shaken by his rough breaths as she kisses his throat and shoulders, with her soft helpless moans when he slides his fingers deeper under soft cotton and strokes her wet. She gasps and takes his tongue in when he kisses her, the weight of his body on hers such a delicious sleek warmth. 

They go swimming in the warm clear waters of the beach, with the little reef sharks flicking by. Of course he tries to pet one. Floating on her back, she laughs as it eludes him and he gives chase, his face creased and determined.

Later back in the villa, they’re relaxing on the wicker couch, waiting for their phones to charge before they walk down to the bar for live music, cocktails and those interesting samosa spring roll things --

“Bis keemiya,” he supplies.

“Yup, those things.”

She’s lying on her side with her head pillowed on his thigh, both dressed to go out. Until he reaches his hand down and gently curves it around her left breast. 

“Oh hello,” she murmurs, stirring at this interest. When she kisses him eager and open-mouthed, he hauls her into his lap, all bare legs and slippery white sundress. They’re laughing a little as they kiss, the scent of orange and bergamot on their skins, exhilarating and warm. His big hands ruck up the flimsy skirt of her dress, baring the smooth peach clad curves of her bottom. Cool breeze, warm hands, as he kisses her mouth with a hot honest hunger and fondles her down there. Rocking her up against his hardness with little gasps, he strokes his tongue into her mouth, and his hands rub the peach material aside so her flesh is bared, so he can squeeze her softness and whisper sweet filthy adoration at her.

When he suggests they go scuba diving, she bites her lip and reminds him, “You can’t swim.”

“I can too!” he retorts, insulted. “I swam when we fucken snorkelled -- went snorkelling, what’s the phrase? Okay, not very well, I’m not the world’s greatest fucken swimmer but I can -- this is my chance to get better!”

As it turns out, it takes a couple of days of intensive lessons to learn how to ocean dive which is of course what he wants. So they start the lessons in the resort’s granite and sparkling blue indoor pools, and she watches that same bloody-minded determination of his come to the fore. It’s not easy for either of them, she’s initially a little concerned about the weight of the gear. But the effort proves to be totally worth it when eventually they get taken out beyond the house reefs to where the water is deeper and murkier over coral shelves and so much marine life.

As the regulator hisses and she hears her own breathing loud and steadying in her ears, he swims beside her, the shape of his body both familiar and alien in the bright blue wetsuit and long finned flippers. A massive school of yellow fish ripple through the water before them, then a group of big blue fish, and a mad array of tiny orange things that squiggle fast away from them.

It’s not nearly as strange as she thought it’d be. It feels like … home, somehow. They hover to watch a frantic yellow fish burrow in and out of the yellow waving fronds of two massive purple sea urchins. What’s it searching for?

He touches her hand and they follow the group of long fins and tanks down into a fissure between reefs. Down until it feels like they’re swimming under the island itself. She looks up, bubbles escaping on an exhale, to where plants of yellow and green dangle and wave through the water above her head, such unexpected prettiness hidden under the coral reef. 

He’s spent a hideous amount of money on an underwater camera bought this morning, and now she watches him chase every possible shot, his confidence at peak levels.

Further out in the blue, they see a whale shark approach, long and speckled and serene, its wide strange mouth harmless as it swims past them, dreaming its whale shark dreams. A manta ray sails by, so huge and weird and majestic. Again he has to grab her ankle, tugging her back with a grin she sees even through the bubbles and the masks.

When they surface, she exclaims, “We gotta do Great Barrier, we just gotta!”

“I know! We totally fucken have to!”

They spend that evening going through the pix and uploading snippets of footage to social media. The wifi is excellent, much better than they were told to expect. He’s gotten a pic of her reaching a hand out to the manta ray billowing past, two dark shapes, one slender, one expansive, both suspended in blue. 

“I’m making that my profile pic,” she decides, tapping fast on her phone.

“Huh, good,” he says. The moment the pic goes up, he comments with: Love at first float. Nearly got dumped for a fish bird. Twice.

She splutters hard into laughter, punching him lightly on the arm. “That is not true! I would never leave you for a manta!”

He catches her hands, their phones falling into the sheets, his eyes lively blue grey as he tugs her into his arms. “No, prolly the giant squid!”

Her body shaking with mirth, she kisses his sunburnt shoulder, tasting salt. “Kraken, maybe.”

“Ohhh.” His voice rumbles against her throat, tongue flicking out on her skin. “Size queen …”

She laughs low and wicked, her gaze lifting to his. “Well, then you have nothing to worry about.”

He blushes even as he cackles and takes her down to the pillows, all sleek warm limbs and tender mouth.

____________

 

Since they’ve learnt to scuba dive, he reckons there’s no reason they shouldn’t try surfing now. She feels it might be somewhat unAustralian to learn how to surf elsewhere in the world. He considers this for a few thoughtful moments and then says, “Yeah, okay, but what if away from Straya it doesn’t really count?”

“It doesn’t count so we’re not really learning how to surf?”

He beams at her. “That’s right.”

“Your brain worries me sometimes,” she tells him. 

On the boat journey, she remarks, “I’m surprised you don’t know how to surf already.”

“Mehhh,” he mumbles, flicking his flat hand with so much misgiving. “I did and I didn’t.”

“But now you’re going to get better.”

His face lights up. “Now I’m going to get better. Now I’m going to **_learn_**!”

“Except it doesn’t really count,” they both add hastily.

As it turns out, February is a little too early for actual swells. So they spend an easy day paddling the flat waters, dreaming under the perfect blue skies, watching the little fishies skim the house reef below them. Using his camera, she takes a pic of him sitting astride his board, gleaming tanned shoulders and silver brown hair sparkling in the sun, his perfect profile looking out towards the horizon. Something stern and thoughtful in his expression.

“Hey.”

As he turns his head towards her, alert, she lets the camera dangle around her neck and paddles closer to him. “What deep thought was that?” she asks cheerfully.

His mouth curls as he watches her, all the tenderness and intelligence of his creased face. “Did I have a deep thought?”

“Certainly looked it,” she replies, brushing a wet lock of hair back from her cheek.

His fingers flex. “Nah, I was -- I was thinking about work. And -- happiness.” His smile is careful and a little bit calculating now, like he’s deciding how honest to be at this very moment.

She makes an educated guess, keeping her voice neutral because this has always been something that’s bothered her, and he knows it. “About how you’re happiest at work?”

His eyes glint blue silver in the sun, all the tiny lines around the corners. “Something like that.”

Figuring she’s pushed this enough, she picks the camera back up and looks through the lens past him to the horizon. There’s nothing to actually take a picture of but she needs to conceal her face for a moment.

He nudges his board so it comes alongside hers. His voice a little sharp, he says, “You’re never so alive as when you’re working -- isn’t that right? You’ve said that.”

She lowers the camera slowly, fighting the urge to be defensive. “You’ve said it too. And alive isn’t the same as happy --”

“Isn’t it?” he says with some danger.

Astonished, she stares. “You’re not jealous of my work … are you?” Her voice rings with disbelief.

“Your work --” His face flinches, like the honesty is too raw now, not what he had intended but he’s started this now. “Your work locks you away from me, locks you in your head. Mine doesn’t --”

“Your work takes you physically away from me,” she interrupts, unable to stop herself. “How is that different?”

He controls his temper with a visible effort, and she can see the hurt come into his eyes. “Because we can be in the same house, and I can’t reach you.”

That makes her breath catch, with pain for him and herself too. 

“My work is collaborative,” he says, intense and slow, like he’s thinking this out, “connective. I **_need_** people to help me do my job.”

His lids flicker, she sees his hand twitch on his thigh. “You don’t need anyone,” he says quietly.

The words come on pure instinct, from a place of truth inside her. “I need someone to take me out of my head, someone to remind me of the world, to connect me back to it. That’s what you do for me. That’s why we’re here. Aren’t we? I never would have thought of this on my own. I never would have gotten us here. We’re here in the midst of all this beauty, seeing all these amazing things because of you.” 

He stays silent, trouble across his brow and in the turmoil of his eyes. 

She takes a breath and says with a certain tightness in her chest. “I am always going to need you.”

Out on the ocean, on the rippling turquoise waters with the sun beating down on them, the sound of distant laughter and music on the sea breeze, they look at each other as the long tense moment eases slowly. Then he pushes off, paddling his board. She follows, checking the camera strap, breathing into the tightness in her chest so it starts to melt away.

“What brought this on?” she asks, trying to be gentle. 

He shrugs with one shoulder, slowing to a stop, his gaze flicking out towards the horizon. “I was just thinking how I’m happy -- we’re happy here -- and neither of us are working.” He glances back at her, a certain hooded sullen look from under his brows, like he’s reverted right back to the angry young man of twenty years ago. “Why can’t we be like this at home?”

“We are -- I thought we are,” she says softly. 

His brows quirk, a silent sceptical nod to himself and the barest hint of a sneer to his mouth. She breathes in, recognising this nasty side to him, trying not to snarl back with her own insecurity and violence. 

“I’m being fucken needy,” he says, his tone abrupt. Looking at his board instead of her. “I know that -- I just --”

“You don’t have to apologise --”

“I’m not apologising!” His eyes flash at her. “I’m just -- I’m just --” He’s struggling to articulate, she can see that he’s annoyed with himself more than her. So she stays quiet and waits, trying to contain her own agitation.

“I want us to be happy,” he says with an effort. “I want -- I want it to be like this all the time.” His gaze sweeps across the calm waters, the perfect blue skies and lush green island with its white beach behind them. His face spasms with disgust. “And I fucken know it can’t. I know that. This is … all too bloody perfect and it isn’t real but --”

He focuses on her, his voice quietening. “It is for some people, right? Some people live the fucken dream, have that perfect blissful relationship --”

“No, they don’t.”

He lets out a bitter little laugh. “No, they don’t. Every relationship is hard work. So it’s an impossible fucken dream and I’m a fucken idiot for wanting it to be real. All the time instead of just moments. A week here and there.”

Her mouth curving, she says, “I thought you were a lot more realistic than that.”

He makes a face. “Yeah, so did I -- apparently not.”

“I like this time,” she tells him with all sincerity. “I love that we have these perfect little interludes, and even though it’s upsetting, I like that we fight too --”

He gives her a half smile, understanding where she’s going. “It’s real, it’s all part of it.”

“Yeah.”

His face is softening now, the storm in his eyes dissipating. “The glorious fucked up awful inescapable reality of being in a relationship.” A sneaky little grin from under his lashes. “With a capital R.”

“Fuck you,” she says with affection and kicks off back towards the island as he laughs behind her.

On the beach as they pick up their boards and head back to the group, he catches her arm, his fingers looping her wrist. She turns in one fluid moment and kisses his mouth. Hears the board thud to the sand as he touches his fingertips to her jaw, kissing her back with infinite tenderness. Now there’s actual pain in her chest, the ache of too much love and too much vulnerability, knowing she may have given too much. 

But then maybe he can take it. Maybe he’s worth the giving.

“Love you,” he mutters against her lips as the sea breeze whirls salt and words around them. She kisses him again, softer, her heart full, and then leads him back to the group.

The rawness between them takes some time to heal, cautiously salved with smiles and gentle humour. In the boat back to the resort, she puts one arm around his waist, cuddling up to him, and he presses his lips against her rapidly drying hair. 

The boat is full of couples and a few families with very noisy kids. It reminds her how many of the activities are targeted towards couples, annoying her a little.

“You know,” he points out with slight cheekiness, “you are a couple.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she says, totally automatically, and then realises. “I mean -- I mean!”

But he’s already gone off into a fit of laughter which looks like it’s going to go for a while. Relieved, she hugs his shaking body.

Back at the villa, they relax in the pool on the deck, wine in hand as they watch the sun setting over the gentle waves. The sky shades from pale pink at the horizon, scattered with dark wisps of cloud, up to purple above them. There are vivid pink petals floating on the surface of the pool, the breeze warm around them, the sloshing of the ocean against the struts below.

In the soft dusk, he’s absently stroking the back of her neck bared by her hair twisted into a knot atop her head. With the other hand, he takes a drag off his smoke, laying his arm along the rim of the pool, the tip of the cigarette glowing in the gathering shadows. She pillows her head on his shoulder, resting against him in the cool pleasant water, all touchable skin and warm flesh.

“For the record,” she says, keeping her voice steady, “if I have bowed to societal pressure to be in a Relationship --” she realises then that she needs to make eye contact for this next bit. When she looks at him, he’s dipped his chin, his eyes that perfect pretty shape, and is watching her with an alert curiosity. “-- it’s only because I’d rather be in a relationship with you than with anyone else.”

“Aww … sweetheart!” 

As she blushes, embarrassed and play-fighting him in the waters, he sets his cigarette down and grabs her face to kiss her very soft and intense. “That is the most romantic fucken thing you have ever said to me! Twice in one day!”

“Yeah, well,” she mumbles, warm all over. “Come the hour.”

“Come the woman?” he suggests, interested and a little lewd.

She giggles, then says sternly. “Come the sentiment!”

“Oh yes.”

His mouth is smooth with wine and the slightest bite of nicotine, sweet and acrid and entirely him. She twines her arms around his neck, feels him slide his hand slow up her spine, out of the water to bare skin and the base of her neck. He kisses her like he’s trying to tell her something, like they haven’t said enough scarily intimate things for one day. Her hands cradling his face, she responds the best she can, and breathes in the scent of wine and sea and nicotine and him. Trusting in the inescapable reality of them.

____________

 

He hums as he makes himself coffee in the mornings. When he brings her a cool glass of coconut juice as she lies out on the wooden deckchair with green cushions, shaded by the white umbrellas, she asks him, puzzled, “What are you singing?”

“Caribbean Queen,” he says, the sunlight catching the freckles on his tanned cheekbone.

“We’re not in the Caribbean!” she laughs up at him.

He wrinkles his nose, a beautiful playful dork. “South Asian Queen?”

“Desi Girl,” she suggests, caught by the possibilities. “No, that’s not right, either, is it? Cos it’s not just India, it’s Sri Lanka, too.”

He sits on the wooden slats of the deck, tanned legs stretching out as he leans his head against her bare thigh. “Colombo Queen -- no, wait!” He raises his cup of coffee at the glorious blue skies and announces, “Mal-diva!”

She bursts into laughter, sitting up to put her arms around his shoulders and kiss his forehead, surrounding him with all her warmth. “You’re a very silly, very clever man --”

“And you adore me,” he completes, his mouth tipping in that perfect artless smile.

“And I adore you,” she agrees, which makes him glow up at her like a giddy cherub.

They make a day trip to Malé, appropriately dressed, the right hats in place, to see the mosque gleaming intricate in the sunshine. At a rooftop café looking out on blue ocean and green city island, they have fish soup and huni roshi, this being the familiar flatbread but fried with coconut flakes. Sipping on her mojito, she watches as he takes a pic of their meal. “Gramming it?”

“Totally.”

“And the view.”

“Absolutely.”

After lunch, they visit the National Museum, trying not to hold hands as they look at the pretty lacquered boxes and the graceful forlorn skeleton of the Longman’s beaked whale. It’s a rambling sort of day, learning enough scraps of history that get him quite fascinated and googling constantly on his phone, telling her about the pre-Islamic days of the Maldives. “And it may have been a matrilineal society,” he exclaims, far too loud in his enthusiasm.

“Gosh!” she whispers back, eyes wide. He hurries over to her, gabbling information and reciting theories. She links her arm with his, so happy to be with him, in the blue sparkling warmth of his presence. Salt and flowers and faint nicotine, the glisten of his sweet weird mouth. 

“Nerd,” she murmurs and grins evilly when he tries to kiss her and catches himself, clearly remembering the cultural standards they have to adhere to while off the resort islands.

They buy a few trinkets and souvenirs, another big floppy hat that is apparently for her but not really. The gold rim of his aviator sunnies glints as he smiles wide and pretty at her. His new secret hat is red, of course.

She’s dreaming in the jacuzzi, soaking away the muscle aches from all his goddamned activities, when he comes in to tell her to get ready for dinner. Rolled up towel cushioning her head against the dark granite wall, she makes a grumbly sound when he turns on the mirror lamps, changing her cosy nook of froth and bubbles into golden light and his familiar cologne.

“Hurry up,” he says, lifting his chin as he adjusts his collar in the reflection. Crisp white shirt and steel grey trousers, he’s dressed up a bit tonight. “I’ve been thinking about the crab curry all day, let’s fucken go.”

“Noooo,” she whines, poking her foot out of the bubbles. “I wanna stay here.”

He turns and looks down his nose at her, doing his best impression of severe icy hauteur. 

“Ooooh,” she says and splashes him all the way up his front.

They never do make it to dinner. He hauls her half out of the tub, she pulls him in, laughing, and he fucks her over the rim, froth and water splashing everywhere, their moans loud in the echo of the gold and granite bathroom, the scent of orange and bergamot sharp in the air.

They spend the evening in bed, cuddling and watching Preston Sturges movies on his iPad. The Palm Beach Story and The Lady Eve, roaring at Henry Fonda’s pratfalls and Stany’s perfect cynicism. 

The food comes to them -- roshi and crab curry and biryani that fills the bedroom with rich yummy fragrance. He makes a glorious mess of the crab, cracking the shells and claws, yelping and licking at the curry as it drips down his forearms to his elbows. She shakes her head and mentally apologises to their poor butler service. 

“How come you’re not making a mess?” he demands happily.

“Because I am perfect and know everything. Pass me the other half of that roshi.”

For dessert, chilled green mango from the mini fridge that he cuts up and brings to bed on a porcelain saucer. “You know what,” she says, elbowing up against the pillows. “Is there any salt and chilli powder in that kitchenette area?”

“Oh! Fuck!” is his verdict when he tastes the combination. “Fuck me, that’s good! That’s great!”

She smirks, licking her thumb clean of the tart mango juice. “That’s some quality Caribbean Queen shit right there.”

“Mal-diva,” he reminds her, leaning in, his eyes soft dark blue and gleaming wicked.

She licks his chin, telling him, “You got mango juice there.”

“Mm? Where else?”

“Here,” she says and kisses his sweet tart mouth.

That night, they sleep with the balcony doors open so the bedroom air clears and turns fresh once more. She wakes at one point, too cold, and gets up to close the doors. In the tropical moonlight reflecting silver off the waters, he’s lying on his stomach amid the white sheets, a naked man with tender bare soles, so much creamy skin up the length of his back, silver brown hair glinting against the pillow. She gets into bed and snuggles up to him, kissing his shoulder. The sheets smell of them now, of his skin and her hair.

____________

 

Valentine’s Day they spend at the spa, all the massages and treatments and super indulgent stuff. The resort is decked out in hearts and ribbons and even more flowers but luckily the spa area stays serene and earthy and green, with the sounds of trickling water and the air filled with clean invigorating natural scents. They have the couples massage, she tries not to say anything filthy or sarcastic, or even make eye contact with him because he’s sure to know. But then she relaxes into pure relief, half dreaming in the peace.

When he points out there’s a couples float available, she agrees without hesitation. They’ve both done it before, but not together. And weirdly enough, she doesn’t want this experience to shade towards sexual. She almost says that to him in a joking sort of way, but realises from the way he avoids looking at her as they shed the robes that maybe he feels the same way. 

It’s one large tank for the two of them, bathed in vivid purple light and clean salt silence. The water is just the right level, silky and heavy, holding her up. It always amazes her how there is absolute no sense of claustrophobia, how in fact the air expands until she feels like she’s floating in space (drifting in time) and calming further and further. When her hip bumps his, eyes closed, she grins and is about to say something. But then he wraps his hand around hers, and she goes silent with indescribable happiness, imagining them floating in the comforting dark like a couple of otters, holding hands and smiling like fools. Dreaming colours.

They shower together after getting out of the tank, the faint music swirling around them in shades of lilac as he kisses her very lightly, his mouth silky warm and wet. Her skin tingles, lashes down as she rests her fingertips on the smooth skin of his chest. “Love you,” he murmurs, his hand stroking slow up the curve of her naked back.

In the evening, as they’re getting ready, she teases, “Are you gunna wear your new floppy hat?”

He gives her a cheeky grin, spark of blue devilry in his eyes. “I should, shouldn’t I? I mean, it’s fucken red, it’s Valentine’s Day. I should.”

“Go on.”

Ultimately, they obey convention and she carries the floppy red thing, her shoulder purse slung across her body, when they walk to the jetty. His hand comes to the small of her back, guiding and protective, as he watches her step onto the boat deck. Her cork sandals with the red ankle ties aren’t very high but he’s always watchful like that. 

The resort island is a glittering array of gold and blue lights through the dark trees as the boat rushes over the waves amber and blue, and the skies shade towards sunset. They chat with their boatpilot person who says she’s also going to double as chef for their private romantic dinner. That she’ll prepare their meal, serve it, and leave them alone until it’s done, and then come back to pick them up.

Their Valentine’s Day dinner is on a tiny speck of an island, white sand turning gold as the sun goes down, palm trees against the vivid skies. There’s a little area already arranged, low white outdoor couches with cushions and bolsters around a coffee table with a glowing egg of a lamp on the turquoise cloth, all flanked by tall iron stands with suspended golden lanterns. The chef tells them to stroll along the beach while she sets up. The whole thing is faintly embarrassing, but as they wander along the white sand, holding hands and watching the tide come in, they relax into the moment, into the experience.

“I like your dress, babe,” he says mildly. 

She turns to him with a smile, pleased he noticed. Of course it’s new, a comfortable wrapover in red patterned with blue butterflies and tiny flowers. Bare legs and the red tie sandals, her hair coiled messily up, the whole look is suitably beach glamorous, and she feels the effect. “Thank you. And you look very lovely, too.”

He grins at her, immaculate in his white shirt with open collar and rolled up sleeves, his suit trousers sleek blue. Of course his shirt is so tight that the points of his nipples are visible, liable to drive her slightly mad over the course of the evening. Blue lace up shoes, silver signet ring on his little finger, and his hair all soft and fluffy silver brown. 

He smiles at her, his eyes deep blue and kind, so attractive she has to stop and kiss him to show her appreciation. He rests his fingertips ever so lightly on the indent of her waist, and nudges her nose with his in that slow tender way she recognises. Warm breeze, the murmur of cool waves, and the scent of delicious food wafting over to them. “Selfie time, I think,” she tells him softly, and he chuckles, agreeing.

They take a few lovely pix against the colours of the sunset, cheek to cheek. Remembering the big red floppy hat that she puts on for one pic and that he appropriates for the next five as she laughs and nestles under it with him. She does take the first pic but he decides it’s not good enough so of course he grabs the phone off her and positions her against him. “Lucky for you, you actually do take good selfies,” she says dryly, which makes him giggle and kiss her cheek as the phone clicks. They agree that’s the best one so far.

Of course there’s no wifi or even phone reception out here so social media will have to wait until they get back to the villa.

As they walk along, holding hands and talking quietly, the blue tide coming in starts to glow with a thousand white points of light. “Oh,” he exclaims, whipping the floppy hat off his head, “I read about this. Look, babe, look, it’s the bioluminescent stuff!”

It’s eerie and beautiful, death on a massive scale as the tiny creatures throw out light in their last moments. When she sighs, he gives her a look of concern. “No, it’s okay,” she assures him, “I don’t -- it seems right, somehow. That in all this tropical beauty, all this contrived romance, even here in this moment is natural death and destruction. I like the, the --”

“The equilibrium of it,” he completes, his mouth curving soft and fine.

“Yes.” She smiles at him, grateful that his weirdness matches hers in this at least.

Their meal turns out to be quite standard Western luxury fare -- oysters and lobster and champagne. Not a single regional dish in sight. He catches her eye with a subtle look, understanding passing between them, but they both turn to the chef with thanks and good mannered appreciation. She shows them the covered dishes of the main and dessert, and the iced bucket of champagne and bottled water placed on the side table, and tells them she’ll be back with the boat in a few hours, that they have a little radio thing if they need to contact her.

The boat whooshes away into the falling darkness, and he links the fingers of one hand with hers on the white plush couch between them. She smiles at him, so calm just at the sight of his familiar beloved face and the way his expression softens when he looks at her. Silver presses heavy against her little finger, warm metal that reminds her. As she reaches for her purse, he kisses her hand, making her blush. 

“I got you something,” she says, knowing her face is as soft as her voice. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Aww!” All surprise and delight, he opens up the little box. It’s a gold signet ring with a crest of tiny flowers and leaves around his three initials. 

“See, now you have gold, silver and bronze.”

He gives her a huge melting smile and kisses her hand again, slow and sweet. “Thank you, my darling, it’s perfect.” As she grins, half pleasure half embarrassment, the corners of his mouth turn down. “I didn’t get you anything.”

She stares at him for a moment, and then: “Liar.”

He bursts into giggles, an impish beautiful manchild with his wide mouth and gleeful eyes. “It’s back at the villa, I’ll give it to you then.”

“Yeah, I bet you will,” she says wryly which convulses him into more laughter. He puts the ring on immediately, on the little finger of his right hand.

The main is little herb-encrusted medallions of steak. His plate balanced on his lap, he pokes at the crust with a fork and identifies all the bits. She reckons dessert will be chocolate of some kind, possibly a mousse.

The sea is dark blue now under the vast cloudy sky, washing vivid dead light all along the edge of the beach. His arm around her shoulders, blue material pulled taut across the contour of his thigh. As the breeze moves over them, fluttering the silky material of her dress against her chest, his gaze slides sideways and drops down there, a certain sly curve to his lashes and mouth. It makes heat curl along her skin. A little breathless, she says, “I thought about getting us those coupon things. You know, those sexy vouchers?”

He makes a face, slightly repelled. “What, like massages and blowies and stuff? Don’t we do that shit anyway? Who the fuck needs vouchers for their humpy pumpy?”

“Oh my god, I hate you,” she says, turning red because he says that just to get this reaction. Now he cackles, and rises to take their plates away, and bring them dessert. She was right.

As she digs into the mousse, a thought occurs to her. “Hold on, are we expected to have sex on these couches?”

His fork pauses in mid-air, his eyes darting with slow dawning horror to the white surface. And then he shrugs, looking back at her, his voice rich with irony. “Well, if we have to …”

She stifles a laugh at this change of heart. “I mean,” she says, eyes wide and innocent, “we could get caught …”

“Oh, horror.” He puts a hand to his chest. “That would just be fucken **_awful_** …”

There’s way too much giggling about this for the next few minutes. 

When they’re done with dessert, they sit for a while with their flutes of champagne, watching the clouds move across the starry skies, watching the electric blue white waves come in and out. Then he sets the Carpenters playing on his phone, sumptuous dreamy love songs dripping with sweetness and sentiment. Gets up and holds his hand out to her with a grin. “Come on, then,” he says with perfect Aussie tenderness.

She stands up and goes into his arms, giddy with joy at all of this. Nuzzling his face as they slow dance for ages and ages, song after song, on the sand in the glow of the iron lanterns, the ocean washing in under the smooth swells of music. She doesn’t need to say that every song reminds her of him, every song with its unconcealed yearning and sincerity, every song with its bewildered happiness and melting gratitude. 

“Love you,” she whispers between them, looking at his soft mouth because the sight of his earnest expressive eyes will be too much right now with all that’s in her heart. He makes this sound in his throat, rough and tender, like he’s been holding his breath so long to hear that. “Love you,” he says, his voice so very soft, and when she looks at his eyes, they’re very blue and very pretty, seeing her clear and kind. With a sigh, she presses her cheek against his, and they dance on through the perfect swirling sound, under the turning skies and stars.

When the song ends and another begins, sultry and slow, he whirls her out and back into his arms. Leans his forehead against hers, sea salt breeze and his cologne swirling around her. There’s heat between them, the awareness of her breasts against his chest, every fabric too thin. Her lips part on a caught breath, and his breath changes too, roughens as he slides both hands down the contour of her back and clasps the curves of her bottom. His voice very low and textured, he tells her with the faintest irony, “Kinda really want to fuck you on those couches right now.”

They’ve made love every night since they arrived, sometimes in the morning, more on the slothful days, especially playing in the pool under the stars. And despite all their snark, this night still feels extra special, all her skin thrumming with desire, like her hunger for him is never sated. 

“Yeah?” she challenges softly. “What’s stopping you?”

They make out on the couches until they hear the sound of the boat. Galaxy of stars above, the glimmer of his throat between the open points of his collar, the champagne bite of his mouth. “Unwrap you,” he mutters against her lips, and the tie comes loose at her waist, the halves of her dress loosening, his mouth seeking and hungry. She tips her head back on a happy sigh as he kisses down her throat, slow sucking kisses, down to where he unwraps the red patterned fabric and gazes down at her revealed body with that sweet crooked smile. Like he knows she’s all his to have and enjoy and care for.

She leans forward just that little bit and catches his nipple with her teeth through the fine white shirt, bites him as payback for torturing her with that sight all evening. “Ah fuck,” he gasps, and slides his blunt fingers over her abdomen and into her knickers. He finds the slippery warmth of her inner flesh, working it as she moans prettily and clutches at him. She unzips his trousers, reaches in to find him half hard already. Whispers of sweet filth, tugging at him as he fingers her, his mouth slipping on her cheek in the sea air and lamplight.

“Aww,” she says when they hear the boat. His face is beside hers, soft breath and kiss-pinkened lips. In that intimate space, she murmurs, “I wanted to be sucking your cock when she came back.”

His face goes a little pinker but he still manages, “Go on, then.”

She laughs, pushing him gently away. “Nah, come on. Poor lady’s just doing her job, she prolly has to put up with this shit all the time.”

When they’re restored to respectability and standing on the beach, waiting, he takes both her hands in his. She glances from the ocean to him, and he inclines his head, lashes down, and kisses her with sweet precision under the big red hat.

____________

 

The villa is all warm wood and golden lamplight up the cream walls and blue blinds on their return. There’s more champagne chilling in an ice bucket, chocolates on the pillow, and rose petals scattered across the bed that puts them in fits of laughter.

“Oh my god,” she says when she recovers, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Oh god, it’s so sweet.”

He’s spluttering giggles as he swipes the petals off the turquoise throw, his white shirt pulling across the muscles of his back. “We shouldn’t laugh, we shouldn’t fucken laugh, people expect this shit, it’s part of the service!”

“I know.” Taking off her hat, she goes out to the living room to get them bottles of water. He joins her, checking his phone. The aircon has kept the villa nice and cool, and now she stretches and yawns, says, “God, I’m going to sleep so well tonight. That dinner was surprisingly satisfying.”

“Don’t you want your present?” he asks with some indignation. 

She tries to conceal her smile, flicking her hand as she returns to the bedroom. “Give it to me when I come out.”

When she’s ready and guessing he’s in bed, probably holding her present, she opens the bathroom door and strikes her best pin-up pose. This involves eyes down, demure flirty smile, arms at her sides, hands turned out, and her bare legs angled to show off the very high red ribbon heels.

“Oh. Ohhhhh.” His voice goes luscious and deep. When she glances up, tongue between her teeth, he’s leaning forward in bed, bare chested, eyes sparkling with delight. “Come over here, you delicious little minx.”

She is not in fact stark naked. Draped in red lace that only goes as far as mid thigh, caught at her waist, the top is one sheer panel of lace over each breast tied in a flounce at each shoulder. As she comes to his side of the bed, he looks at the bare strip of skin from her waist to her throat with a smile so lazy and pleased she knows she chose well.

“Here,” he murmurs, tapping his thigh.

Like she was going to sit anywhere else. He watches with parted lips as she straddles his lap, the heels vivid red and sharp in the white sheets. He puts his hands where the red lace rides high on her thighs, thumbs stroking her smooth skin, gold glinting.

“Look at you, you pretty thing,” he says, his eyes sultry blue. “Who do you belong to?”

She bites her lip, sharing that gleam of laughter. “You.”

“Fucken right you do,” he mutters and goes to kiss her.

“Uh uh.” She leans back, thoroughly enjoying herself. “You wanna watch this.”

“Yeah?” Interested, he looks down at her chest. And she very deliberately shrugs one shoulder. The flouncy red tie flops right off and slides down her arm, lace swathing across until it catches on the erect point of her breast. 

“Oh,” he says softly. One hand comes to her back. His mouth traces from the shape of her shoulder down to the curve of her breast, following the edge of lace with his wet tongue. Until his hand presses and she arches with a little moan into the seize of his mouth on her nipple.

There’s a flat box wrapped with broad red ribbon in the sheets beside him. She tugs on his hair and points. His mouth curves sweet and lovely. “Now?”

“No, just --” she takes in a breath, knowing her eyes are wide, knows there’s yearning in all the soft shapes of her expression. “Just the ribbon for now. I want --”

At her back, he blindfolds her with the smooth broad ribbon and gently pulls her arms behind her, bites her earlobe as she laughs breathlessly. He kisses her slowly all over her shoulders as the red lace falls to her hips, taking his slow sweet time. His hands holding her waist and sliding across skin to her navel, like all her flesh is lovely and precious. She loves so much the way he touches her. How he turns her face to him and then fondles her breasts with both hands, kissing her deep and filthy. 

Clasping his wrists, she lets her head fall back on his shoulder, weak from all this worship, and feels it when one hand slides down her abdomen and between her thighs. She whimpers, buckling a little as he finds her wetness. Unable to see anything but feel everything, every nudge of his tongue, every rasp of gold, every flick of his fingertip, the solidness of his body holding her up. His fingers slide easy into her, making them both moan, and she feels him thrust his hardening cock against the soft lace across her bottom.

With the blindfold on, she can only tell from his warmth and his touch where he is, no idea where his mouth’s going to go next. Gasps when he turns her and sucks on her nipple, the sensation so different and heightened now. Little cries of pleasure at the image in her head, of her in the red satin and red lace with him bending her back over his arm, his mouth eager and hungry. She feels all sweet heavy flesh, the soft touch of her hair on her nape, her fingers dragging in the cool sheets, wanting to be dragging on his skin. Her hands aren’t bound but she folds them up behind her back and tells him, still breathless, “Put your cock between my tits. I want it there.”

“Oh. Yeah, fuck,” he replies, and tugs the red flounces back onto her shoulders. Lace across her nipples still sharp and wet from his mouth. He lays her down, she feels when he braces one arm by her head, slings his leg across her, one knee by her hip, the smell and heat of his flesh so close. And they both moan when his cockhead slides into her cleavage, smooth and sticky against hot and curved. He straddles her torso, moves his hands to cup her breasts and bring them closer together, lace and flesh to hold his cock, so he can fuck her like that. It makes her so wet between her thighs, lying on her hands when she wants to touch herself, when she can smell her own arousal in the cool reddish air. 

“Oh fuck,” he’s saying in rough broken groans, juddering her with rhythm. His fingers slip up over her chin, push into her mouth, fingers and then the edge of warm metal so she has something to suck on and seize. Her hips are moving in the same rhythm as his, fucking the air, wanting to be fucking his fingers, his cock instead. He takes his fingers out of her mouth and catches at her nipples, pinches enough that she swears and lunges up at him. That makes him laugh, sliding down her body so he can kiss her with his playful joyous mouth.

“Oh, fuck me,” she pleads, even though she knows she doesn’t want it just yet. 

“Nah, not yet,” he replies, and goes lower on her body. He licks up the strip of bare skin between the lace panels, long wet stripe of his tongue from her waist up between her tits, and licks into her mouth, sucking a kiss from her, hungry and invasive. She takes her hands out from under her, gets her fingers in his hair now, squirming so his cock slides against her aching wetness, holding him to her and kissing him back with all her untrammelled desire. Because he’s beautiful and eager and all hers, and she’ll have him.

He slides his big hands down over her hips, she imagines him looking down at the red lace barely concealing the vulnerable paleness of her thighs and the shape of her sex. He kisses her thigh through the lace, and very deliberately smooths his palms down the outside of her calves. It’s the shoes he’s going for, she realises with a silent delighted grin. They’re so brazen and decadent, all satin ribbons tangled and wrapped high around her ankles, luscious red against her skin. And now he lifts one, caresses the long sleek contour of her leg, such a delicate stroke along her calf that melts her against the sheets because he knows how unbearably sensitive she is there. 

“Oh god,” she whimpers and tugs the blindfold off, needing to see this next bit. He’s so mouthwateringly elegant and touchable between her thighs, slanting her that sweet hot smile, all glimmering blue eyes and nakedness. He turns his attention back to where it was, and kisses the high arch of her foot, his hand cradling the underside of her shoe so the fine point of the heel scrapes the inside of his wrist. “Oh jesus motherfucking christ,” she says raggedly, completely addled by the sight of him. 

She knows where he’s going to go next, and it’s no less hot when he slides down against the bed, his lashes lowering, and slides her foot over his shoulder. “Oh,” she moans. It’s such a beautiful image, vivid red ribbons and the perfect rounded shape of the shoe against the smooth sculpted bone pushing under tanned freckled skin. He smiles at her, clever and tender, and bends his head to lick at her sex that’s so ready and throbbing, full of wet for him. “God,” she sobs as if they haven’t done this so very many times, as if it never fails to undo her completely.

She comes, once twice, on his face, helpless and writhing, so completely in the physical reality of her body, held in place by his hands as he goes in deep and sucks the pleasure into her, out of her. When she’s limp in the sheets, all her flesh heavy with sweetness, he laughs softly and pulls himself up her body. Up so he can give her that wicked divine smile and say, “So now do you want your present?”

It’s a gold body chain that lies across her collarbones and drops between her breasts to drape in three delicate strands around her hips swathed in red lace. She looks down at herself, registering the total eroticism of her femininity and the way his breath has quickened, the stiffness of his cock between them. And she glances up at his face. “Did you get yourself one too?”

He blinks, then with increasing delight: “Do you think I should?”

“Yes. Yes, Benjamin, you should.”

As he gurgles a laugh, his ears going faintly pink, she reaches behind her neck to unhook the chain. “Let’s try it on now.”

It pulls a little on the broadness of his chest but he seems to like that, a soft sob as he touches the strand cutting across his shoulder. His cock is getting so hard now, leaking at the tip. So she goes down and sucks on the head, swirling her tongue around it as he moans and pets with one hand at her hair. When she looks up his body, he’s touching himself with the other, colour high on his cheekbones as he strokes the gold draped across his hips. 

She pulls off to say, “Turn around. Turn, I want to see you.”

His perfect round bottom with delicate gold strands across creamy skin and the long curve of his spine. “God, you’re fucking gorgeous,” she says, breathless, and pushes him down onto the bed. She licks up along the gold, seeing how he writhes and rubs his cock against the sheets. So she reaches down between his spread thighs and takes hold of him, licks all the way down as he gasps in shock.

“This okay?” she remembers to ask, and he groans, “Yes, fuck, yes, jesus, don’t stop.” 

So she hooks her fingertips under the strands, and nudges his cock into her warm wet mouth. Now he’s the one undone with pleasure, now it’s her nipples rubbing against the cool sheets, her sex clenching with soft pulsing sensation.

He pulls away before he can come down her throat, turning and scrambling back up against the pillows, swallowing hard as he struggles to regain composure. On her hands and knees, she waits, watching to see what happens next.

“Enough,” he manages hoarsely. “Enough for now. Let’s get this back on you. We’ll --” he swallows again, his hair all messy and face red “-- we’ll get me one when we go home.”

So it gets fastened back onto her.

“Gunna break this,” he mutters, hooking his finger under the central strand. “I’m gunna fucken -- uh!”

Because she’s impaled herself on him, and now braces herself with both hands on his chest, fucking her hips in a fast relentless swivel on his, fucking him so he clutches with both hands at her bottom, driving her on.

“Yeah,” he urges, “like that -- god, you’re fucken -- yeah, jesus, fuck -- fucken beautiful, god!”

The gold strands ride the sway of her bare hips, a striated sensation on the edge of her awareness. The red lace caught on her thighs, all her concentration is on his breathless gasping face, on the feel of his cock hot and hard fucking upwards into her.

“Oh jesus,” he groans and reaches up to catch hold of the gold strand against her sternum. “Fuck.” He yanks hard, so hard she topples forward with a cry, and the delicate chain snaps with a soft shocking violence.

“Fuck,” he snarls and rolls them in one swift movement so he’s on top and hammering into her, harder and faster so she can only hold onto the sheets and cry out, exhilarated. His wet skewed mouth open on the glint of teeth, and his eyes intense blue, watching her being fucked.

She pulls her knees up around his thrusting hips, and he gasps at something, distracted into looking down and hooking his hands under her thighs. He pulls them higher and tells her, “Dig them in.”

“What?” she stammers, bewildered.

His tongue flicks out over his lips, uncertainty crossing his expressive face. “The heels -- put them --” He sweeps one hand down her calf and pulls her leg so the stiletto point of her red ribbon heel presses sharp into the flesh of his back. “Dig them in, I want to feel it.”

“Oh,” she breathes out, eyes round with discovery. He likes the pain, it makes him fuck her harder, chin tipped up, cords standing out in his throat. The sight of him is thrilling, his savagery so very satisfying. Sweat slipping all over their skin, slicking hot between them, glimpses of his glistening chest and her naked breasts as they move together and press together, flesh on flesh. He grinds down, catches her sweet spot, over and over again as heat builds in her, hotter and hotter, tighter and tighter until she convulses around him, crying out and coming in rushes of sweet wet fire. He fucks her through her orgasms, not done with her yet, fucks her til she’s sobbing and pleading, and then pulls out, grabs his cock at the base, and comes all over her tits and across the gold and red.

“Jesus,” she whispers eventually, once they’ve somewhat recovered, heartbeats slowing down. He hasn’t come on her since possibly the first or second time they fucked, months and months ago.

Collapsed on his front beside her, he puts a hand on her stomach. They both promptly flinch, his come is all sticky and rapidly turning cold on her skin. “Eww!” she exclaims, only a little serious.

Laughing feebly, he struggles up and swabs her clean with the red lace nightie. “Sorry. Sorry, my darling.”

“Sokay.”

When they’re cuddling under the sheets, face to face in the silver tropical darkness, he traces the edge of his thumb along the curve of her jaw, gazing at her in that intense wordless way he does every time afterwards. The gold signet ring gleams on the edge of her vision. She kisses his thumb and then leans in to kiss his throat. 

As he turns onto his back, holding her to him, she says, “You realise you’re gunna have to buy me another fucken chain, right?”

He bursts into laughter. They both know he’s going to break that one too.

“Ooh,” he murmurs, reaching around the pillow. “Look what I found.”

Strawberry fondant heart covered in dark chocolate. She eats hers and kisses him, sweetness going through her. “Mm, good,” he says and fumbles on the bedside table for his smokes.

Lying against him, she’s looking out at the view through the balcony doors and off the deck. The great spiral of stars through the dark blue skies, the ripple of moonlight on the moving waters. Thinking of the mantas swimming under the surface, the whale sharks in their dreaming, and the deep deep creatures of light and spines in the bone crushing cold further out towards home.

The thought of home makes her smile against his skin.

“Do you know what I just realised?” he says suddenly.

She looks up, resting her chin on his sternum. “What?”

He scowls at her, the lit cigarette dangling from his lower lip. “We totally fucken succumbed to capitalist heteronormative pressure. We didn’t escape it, we bought into it! With this --” he takes the cigarette out and gestures around “-- all this, the trip, the dinner, the everything! All this luxury and expense, all the over the top romance. We -- I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realise!”

As she starts to grin, he exclaims, “No, seriously, I’m not taking the piss. We drank the fucken kool-aid!”

She wrinkles her nose. “Not sure I care for your mixed metaphors there, mate.”

He grins, his indignation dissolving into glee. “Really? Too scatalogical?”

“Oh, rather.”

He laughs, stubbing out the cigarette on the bedside table, and pulls her up so they’re face to face again. As they cuddle, a happy tangle of limbs and kisses, she sighs and says, “Ah well. It was a lovely fantasy. This week we allowed ourselves the fantasy of false consciousness.” 

His eyes sparkle. “Next week we’ll overthrow the capitalist bastards.”

**Author's Note:**

> The Maldives setting is Mendo [answering randomly to a dream vacation question](https://theplaylist.net/ben-mendelsohn-darkest-hour-20171116/). I couldn’t resist.
> 
> As always, I get enormous inspiration from the posts at [lackinprivacy](https://lackinprivacy.tumblr.com/).
> 
> “Yes, Benjamin, you should” is a direct quote from vell1chor when in a completely unnerving coincidence, she suggested a body chain for another Mendo fic idea we were discussing, and I had to then tell her about this bit I had already planned and partly written. Obviously I don’t tend to use names in Mendo fic but this was too perfect to pass up.


End file.
